Oyster E-Book

Michael Pedersen

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 74

Beschreibung

Oyster is the second collection from prize-winning Edinburgh poet Michael Pedersen. From Grez-sur-Loing and festive nights to sizzling summers stretched out in the Meadows and Portobello, Michael Pedersen's unique brand of poetry captures a debauchery and a disputation of characters, narrated with an intense honesty and a love of language that is playful, powerful and penetrative; he vividly illuminates scenes with an energy that is both witty, humourous but also deeply intelligent. Oyster is iced, spiced, baked and beaming for your pleasure. Oyster features bespoke illustrations from Frightened Rabbit lead singer and songwriter Scott Hutchison.

Leseprobe

OYSTER

OYSTER

Michael Pedersen

with illustrations byScott Hutchison

This edition first published in

Great Britain in 2017 by Polygon,an imprint of Birlinn LimitedWest Newington House, 10 Newington RoadEdinburgh, EH9 1QS

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Michael Pedersen, 2017

Illustrations copyright © Scott Hutchison, 2017

The right of Michael Pedersen to be identified as the author of thiswork has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,Design and Patent Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored or transmitted in any form without the expresswritten permission of the publisher.

Print ISBN: 978-1-84697-397-0eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-935-0

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from theBritish Library.

Typeset in Verdigris mvb by PolygonPrinted and bound by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall

CONTENTS

Obsessive Cannibal Love Poem* 1

Starry-Eyed* 2

Kung Fu Fighting 5

Gravity* 6

Cannae Sleep* 8

Highland Koo* 11

Big Feardie 14

Swallow the Pill 16

Limelite Bar, Meadowbank 18

Fancy Dress for Fancy Folks* 20

Oyster* 23

Middle November, Paris, 2015 26

What was Supposed to be an Angry One 31

When you Came to me in Grez-sur-Loing* 32

Birds & Trains 34

Ying-Yang-Wrang-Wan-Right 37

When they got together they knewwhat they weren’t 38

Antipodeans 41

Cliff & Noc 42

Rollercoasters 45

Finding Grace 47

James Dovetail 51

life of owen 53

I’m a PC 56

Invitation for Luncheon with Caddy D 58

John Up High 62  

Birthday BBQ, 2008 64  

Manchester John: Episode II 66  

Christmas at Omega Sauna 68  

W1 71  

W1(III) 73  

When Carla Moved Out 75  

Hey Ho Here Comes Colin 77  

Transmorphisizing * 79  

Greetin’ fur Gretna Green 81  

Humping Cows 84  

FUCK! 86  

A Year, Aye? 90  

Totem Pole Capable 91  

Conversation Overheard in CraigmillarDental Practice 93  

R v Brown 96  

Free Personality Test, Sir?! 98  

Superstition & Superheroes 100

(In between) Mud & Stars 103

Portree’s Lost & Found 105

Guide to Space Proofing your Robot Heart 109

Deep, deep down* 113

Hello, I am Scotland* 114

Acknowledgements117

*Audio recordings of these poems are available from thepublisher, see page 120 for more information.

Obsessive Cannibal Love Poem

Today is yes please and now to zipping your

skin around me, to wrapping up in you

like a winter coat with matching scarf

and walking barefoot on powdered snow,

you: the flakes squeezing

between my toes; the biscuits I brought

to snack on are your bones baked

and sweetened; like counting stars

I do not think I will ever be done

kissing you: honey all over

and deep inside, I will swallow

your dancing tongue; take your

daydreams into my nightdreams, all

neu-wave heavenly, ethereal gleam

on wet tarmac, enemy of the rain

which fell between us, which has

no business being there.

Other days a text message

or quick chat on the phone

will do just fine –

I never can tell.

[1]

Starry-Eyed

There are scientists with mouths

agape, eyes gazing

at Saturn’s rings: a satellite’s sink

and swing make it so, unveil

space secrets, star trails, objects

born of light and dust.

If a bell rings in space

they’ll have an idea how it

sounds, they probably put it

there: can a bell ring underwater ?

you’re maybe thinking – me

too. Not a bell but a crash

in the rings has caught their eye,

a swell of disturbance created

by a creature: Peggy.

At the time of writing, reader,

Peggy has never exposed herself:

what’s seen is the ripples

pulsing, ripples rising. We

know what she’s not: not

a moonlet, which would part

the dust more violently – so

a non-moonlet – not biblical, not

a fish, the ripples are not akin

to those on Scottish lochs. Peggy

leaves a hole in the rings like

[2]

an antique brooch needling

into a cashmere scarf

– the gaps in the rings will

reform and bauble yet always

be different; not the same

as water, helixed and twisted

through propeller blades

which remains water, but

not so different either.

They’re hunting Peggy’s ghost,

slug tracks, mouse droppings.

Don on the job,

satellite-wise, is Cassini.

Leering and loitering best and longest,

after years of Peggy

shadow-stalking, Cassini’s

reign on Saturn’s lip

is trembling to a close. Retirement,

sure, but Cassini will not

come home, instead will capture

one last supreme

and crowning image of Peggy.

One last before plunging into

the fast flying debris. One last before

eternal destruction.

A martyr to the moves of Peggy,

perhaps touching the same

[3]

dust, perhaps, in the future,

being part of a dustbin elbowed

out the way as Peggy

rushes by, a snowy smear

of glowy smudge, penumbra

winking down, and grinning

through the nebulae.

Scientists will call the end

of Cassini a migration.

Mission complete,

they’ll clink Champagne

and plot another probe.

The end of Cassini

will be a 75,000

mile-an-hour collision,

a jet propulsion watched

from an earthly laboratory.

Cassini will get a moment

of silence before the drinking

starts; Cassini is carrying

the question of life,

Cassini is a genius

in just one word, not

just a scientific success

but an act of desperation:

requited and unrequited love.

Cassini has left

the space business.

[4]

Kung Fu Fighting

I should like to karate kick

all your insecurities

square

on

the chin

(KIAI!):

perfect force

and

flawless precision;

a trained, toned,

muscular limb.

To date, I’ve just

been shoving at ’em,

pub brawling,

odd prod

in the ribs or

jab tae the chest.

If I finished

the job, sparkled

’em, if your world

stopped wavering

because of them,

would you still need

my arms and legs –

you’d be so

strong yourself?

[5]

Gravity

I love you,

she said, as if wearing someone

else’s skin,

as if clocking in

then out

of the nine-to-five

that tired her bones.

I love you, she said

with the forced verve of waves

gargling oily pebbles from

a spill, its fringe, a congealing shoreline: talk

laced with salt, a tongue

socked in sand. I love you,

she said, with the mechanical bareness

of a warden clamping a car

to the pavement,

the payment meter and itself;

choking on diesel that once

made an engine purr; a majestic gull sifting

through a city’s birthing gunk, cum,

love’s tragic overspill.

I love,

she said.

I love

you,

[6]

with the frankness of caffeinated truths

in the morning after our own golden Armageddon

which is as welcome as Nirvana.

I love you, half price,

with the candour of when we never really knew each other,

bridal curiosity ringing, rings setting up the eyes.

I love you,

in a way

we never touch upon in joviality;

in a way

we never rediscovered that raw sexuality;

in a way

we have time to tread

water – that’s no good thing.

I love you, with saccharine warmth

for our own self-pleasantries.

With everything we’re floating.

We promised to make things float.

Were we not supposed to (this once made us) F L O A T?

[7]

Cannae Sleep

If not for that blasted boiler bellowing

as if hawking up soot and phlegm

or a nettling sensation parading

over freckled skin; if not for

your legs jolting like a wind-up

toy gone bananas or the fact I

hear breath, feel and nearly see

breath at the foot of the bed; if not for

roving creatures smearing

handprints over the damp,

rattling window on which

the moon has painted itself,

I’d be sound asleep, blissfully dreaming,

sculpting plots so gratifying

I’d applaud myself on waking,

remarking, well dreamt kid,

in the manner of a baseball coach

praising an underrated player,

whose homer just won the game.

If not for shattered bone

tightening in my right index,

triggering a seeping pain

which sluggishly curls

around breaks that never quite

healed; if not for that second

[8]

cup of heaped coffee, abundant

sugar in wine; if not for rock

shock wilderness challenging

far-off vastness, if not for

a lack of mental shelf space

or the storm outside shaking the air

like tambourines, rainsticks and maracas,

the wind, full cantata, torpedoing

trees, howling like an orgy

of giddy banshees, terrifying

the neighbour’s darling

kids; or the thought of

missing cats drenched ’n’ greetin’

sheltering in doorways,

the meat on them attracting

Thought Foxes, the cinematic

plop of weighty drips plus the clock:

that fucking clock, tick-tocking

though the hands fell off

years ago; if not for unlit

candles wobbling on china

saucers keen to burn –

implying they could be smoking stars – illuminating

the scuffed boots and cracked pots below; if not

for shapes and figures

swirling around in darkness